


Just You, And I, Together Forever

by EvieSmallwood



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, bit of an eating disorder so tw, i love these two crazy kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-11 07:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12930204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: Stan goes to Bill’s 16th birthday party and ends up in the arms of someone totally unexpected.





	Just You, And I, Together Forever

_7...4...2...4...4...3_

The locker popped open, revealing the neat stacks of books and worksheets that Stan had collected throughout the semester. He rifled through them, searching for his math textbook to take home, when he realised that something had fallen out.

It was an envelope, sitting, blue and crisp, on the edges of Stan's hi-tops. He scooped it up with a frown; it was too formal to be a hall note from Rich and not the right stationary to be from the school itself. He ripped it open with some bemusement (because honestly, who wrote letters?), and realised that it was only an invitation to Bill's 16th birthday party.

Stan bit his lip as he read it over, noting the neat and formal print. He closed his locker and began walking toward the exit, still examining the paper. Last year, it had just been a small thing—the losers and Bill's folks, eating Bill's favourite meal and watching his favourite program on TV. They'd played board games and even tried a beer in Bill's backyard.

This, though... This was Bill's sixteenth birthday. Most people knew Bill, and if it was important enough that he was sending out invitations...

“Hiya, Stanny!”

Stan jumped, whirling to his left, gaze settling on Richie; he looked absolutely stupid with his hair in all directions, curling in random places (so disorderly, so messy; Stan always had to resist the urge to run a comb through it), paint flecks on his hands and cheeks from art class. His eyes were blinking behind his huge glasses as he approached Stan. “Got your invite, too, then?”

“Yeah,” Stan confirmed, trying not to sound glum. He shrugged. “I don’t know if I can go. I have this family reunion that weekend...”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Is this the same family reunion that took place durning _my_ birthday weekend? Or is it the one you had to go to on Eddie's birthday? Hell, the next thing we know, you'll have to reunite with all those long lost cousins and uncles and sisters on your birthday, Stanny!”

Stan blushed. “Shut up, Rich,” was all he could say, because it wasn't like Richie was wrong. He needed a better lie to get out of these things.

Richie huffed. “Let's go,” he said, a little more serious. “Bill's awaitin' at the drive in.”

* * *

 

Bill was indeed waiting for them, leaning against the hood of his Ford. It was used, and smelled too strongly of cigarettes (worsened because of Rich and Bev), but it ran okay and Bill seemed to like it just fine.

He brightened when he saw them, and Stan felt a little loss with the absence of the skip-a-beat he'd usually received at that look. These last few months something had changed, an axis had shifted, and suddenly Bill was not the magnetic force which drove Stan—that was someone else. Maybe it always had been that someone else and Stan'd been deluding himself the whole time.

Richie perched himself next to Bill and crossed his legs, grabbing some fries from the red basket behind the both of them. Bill rolled his eyes. "S-Save some for Stuh-Stuh-Stan, Rich.”

Stan shook his head, sitting down next to Richie. “That's okay, I don't want any.”

“He never does,” agreed Richie knowledgeably. Stan blushed.

_Of course I don't; they're gross and soggy and they make you bloat (and we all bloat we all float we all float down here)_

The movie began to play, and they sat in silence for a while, eventually moving upward to rest against the windshield. Richie mocked the characters in his Pickaninny Voice until Stan shut him up. The sun set, replaced by the bright burn of neon.

Bill was half asleep. He’d been staying up too late studying again.

“Stanny?”

Stan started, glancing at Rich. “What?”

“You’re going to his party, right?”

Stan had been chewing on that for a while. If he didn't go, he'd be a terrible friend. It was a big birthday after all. But who knew how many people would be there? Ever since Bill had joined the football team it seemed like he was friends with everyone in the school.

His skin crawled, and he turned away from Richie's imploring gaze, looking back at the movie instead. “Maybe.”

“Oh c'mon, you gotta,” Richie grabbed his arm, not tightly, but Stan jumped anyway. His face grew hot and he prayed that wasn't obvious. “You can't leave me alone with those losers.”

“Rich, you know everyone in Derry. How could I possibly be leaving you alone?”

Richie pursed his lips. Words were not said in that moment, but if Stan had heard them (if he had heard: _I'm always alone when you're not there, no matter who I'm with_ ), it would not have taken so long. It would have happened sooner.

Instead, he swallowed, and nodded, and it happened two days later.

* * *

 

The Denbrough house was loud.

It was not just the music, but the talking. Dozens of people had to be inside, Stan decided. He stood alone on the front porch, a perfectly wrapped gift looking pathetic in his hands. He doubted half the people in there had brought anything at all. He doubted anyone but the losers knew anything about Bill—about the real Bill. They didn't deserve to be here. Probably Bill didn't even want them there. But they had come, and so that was that.

“Stan, _dawling_ , you shouldn't have!” Someone—Richie, of course—pulled the gift from Stan's hands. He shook it, grinning. “Is it a set of pearl earrings from the prime minster?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “It's a book, shit-for-brains,” he said.

“Shit For Brains! What an interesting title—”

Stan snatched it back and rang the doorbell defiantly. In the thirty seconds it took for someone to answer, Richie grabbed Stan's hand. “You don't have to—”

But he did, because the person who answered the door was Bill, and he was smiling. He was happy. Maybe with his party. Maybe with them. Maybe both. But Stan would not turn around and ruin that. He couldn't possibly.

And so he stepped inside with Richie and took in the scene; Bill's folks clearly weren't around this time, but there were plenty of other people. It almost felt like walking into another country. Had Bill truly changed this much? Or had he always wanted so many people around him, but been stuck with the losers?

Maybe this change would go away. Maybe Bill, who Stan knew to be quiet and steady and strong, would stop fucking around and be... who he was meant to be.

It wasn't this. Stan knew that.

Richie made the rounds and Stan followed him, standing awkwardly off to the side. After a while, he spotted Mike, and wandered over.

“Hey,” said Stan. “Loud, huh?”

“Crowded,” agreed Mike. His observant eyes seemed locked on to each and every person in the room, though that was impossible, of course (and yet, often times Mike made the impossible look easy).

“How long do you think you'll stay for?”

“The whole thing, I guess. I’ll help Bill clean up...” he didn't even look displeased with that. “What about you?”

Stan nodded, almost curtly, and found himself ducking away. Mike called after him, confused, but Stan ignored him. He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and threw open the bathroom door. It was mercifully empty. Stan flicked the light on and locked himself in.

The sound of the music was muffled just slightly. Stan leaned against the cool bathroom wall, out of breath. _Why does there have to be so many people why can't it just be us why does everyone have to love Bill too—_

Someone was knocking on the door, but Stan could barely move. He had sunk to the floor, he realised. He was not breathing—or maybe he was breathing too quickly.

The next thing he knew, Richie was leaning over him, one hand on his face and the other clasping his wrist. His brow was furrowed. “Slow down, okay? Just breathe.”

Stan nodded. He was crying. _Why do I have to be such a fucking baby? Why can't I just be normal?_

“Hey, it's okay,” Richie sat across from him, easily wiping Stan's tears from his cheeks. “You’re gonna be fine. We can leave. It's okay.”

“We...We just got here...”

“We’re fucking going,” Richie said firmly. He pushed Stan's hair from his eyes, and Stan dazedly realised that Richie was blushing.

Without really realising quite what he was doing, Stan reached for Richie, pulling him closer (or leaning forward; either way the result was the same: an inch and a half of screaming space between them).

His heart was still racing, but for a different reason, now. A better one.

He'd kissed Richie before, sure. One time, when they were thirteen, and alone. One of them had had a nightmare, but it wasn't clear to Stan just then who it had been. One of them. And they'd kissed.

And it was just like it was now; warm, in his stomach and his heart and his brain—all through him. Richie was surprised at first. He tensed up and then pulled Stan as close as possible. There was some part of Stan that felt afraid, and uncertain; the way one feels when walking in the dark or after spinning in a circle for too long—it was a dizzy sort of feeling accompanied by the knowledge that he had no idea what was going to happen next.

But Rich pulled away. His voice was raspy when he asked, “Did that help?”

Stan grinned. “Yeah, it did.”

Richie had the edge of Stan's shirt balled in his fist. He looked down at it, maybe to hide his blush, and Stan found himself burying his face in the crook of Richie's neck.

“I'm not gonna lie, Stan, I was starting to think you didn't like me.”

Stan didn't want to rise from the comfort and odd familiarity of Richie, but he did. “Really?”

Richie shrugged. “You never look back,” he explained.

“I look first,” Stan corrected, only really guessing. “Or maybe after. I don't know. But I _look_ , Richie.”

Richie hummed. “That's good, I guess.”

“You don't believe me?” Stan found this both amusing and ridiculous, given the fact that they were sprawled alone in the bathroom and who the fuck knew who's legs were who's—but he sighed. “I'm... I don't ever want to be around anyone but you for the rest of my life, okay?”

At that, Richie's face broke out into a grin. “You're dopey, Stan Uris,” he laughed.

Stan laughed, too; he didn't have to try not to anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a while ago, and posted on my tumblr, but here it is! Thank you for reading!


End file.
